Always be a poet, even in prose.
Nature is a temple in which living columns sometimes emit confused words. Man approaches it through forests of symbols, which observe him with familiar glances.
If a given combination of trees, mountains, water, and houses, say a landscape, is beautiful, it is not so by itself, but because of me, of my favor, of the idea or feeling I attach to it.
Nature is a word, an allegory, a mold, an embossing, if you will.
I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.
Nature... is nothing but the inner voice of self-interest.